My Good Man
by Kaz McDonell Miller
Summary: One-shot/Novelization; Case 1-5. Marshall confers with Goodman about the events of SL-9. Spoilers.


**my good man**  
written by: _sylenis_

"'Ey, hombre…" Jake began playfully. "Might I have a word with ya?"

"Sure," Bruce said as he looked up from his paperwork. He hadn't talked this casually with Jake in a long time, and his sudden appearance piqued his interest. "What's up, Marshall?"

"Well…you remember the SL-9 incident, don't you?"

"Hm?" He raised a brow. There were so many affixed case numbers.

"Joe Darke."

"_Oh_." How could he have forgotten? It could be because he was the least affected career-wise, even though he was the head investigator of that trial. But that infamous case always left a bitter taste of doubt in his mind. "What of it?"

"I want to re-open it. You'll help me, won't you?"

"…"

"…won't you?"

Bruce pursed his lips thoughtfully, and averted his eyes away from Jake's intimidating gaze. He truly wanted to help his old friend. He also knew, as well as all of his former colleagues, that this case was anything but closed. But it was too old…too risky. "I'm sorry, partner, but I don't think—"

"Damn it!" Jake scoffed, quickly turning his head to hide the tears that started coming up in his eyes. He didn't want to admit that he felt defeated. The case was almost done for…but the problem was that it was never "done" in the first place.

"See, the problem with you is that one—_you_ didn't lose your position and two—_you_ don't have a brother who was killed because of the whole ordeal," Jake pointed out, staring back into Goodman's face. Bruce flinched as Jake pointed a long finger into his chest. "You don't know the agony I've gone through the past two years, knowing that I can't reach that itch. But, hey, if that's what you're gonna do…"

"It bugs me as much as it does you Jake, honest, but…I'm really sorry."

"Sorry ain't gonna clear up what happened to my brother," he sighed. Bruce looked at his desk thoughtfully as Jake wandered off. Seeing the despair in the cowboy's face struck a different nerve. He understood Jake's pain, and maybe he didn't understand it as much as he could have. But re-opening the two-year old solved case…?

"'Solved', huh?"

Bruce rubbed his chin, and stood up. In the recesses of his mind, it had bothered him tremendously as well. It came time to freely admit this certainty to himself. Too much fabricated evidence…too many unanswered questions. Jake wasn't just paranoid because it was his brother that had been killed—but it was quite the mysterious case. What motive could Joe Darke have ever had for just killing Marshall like that? It was inconsistent with his strings of killings. He wasn't a witness to a thing. It also wasn't as if he had a bad enough sentence on his shoulders anyway. Angel believed it…and Lana's sudden transfer to being the Chief of Prosecutors…

Everything happened for a reason, but the explanations were anything but clear. All of the results of the Joe Darke killings were far too sudden, consecutive, and changing. He wondered why he hadn't been affected. Was it because of his generally apathetic nature? He said he was done with the case and meant it. He tried not to let it bother him. Swiftly throwing on his distinguishing white trench coat, he quickly looked up the official police record for the name of the case…

Quickly searching the database of solved cases, he found the name near the end of the list. Pulling out a spare piece of paper, he quickly jotted it down. He hadn't touched or looked at the particular pieces of his evidence from that case ever since it closed. "Yeah…SL-9. I'll do it…"

- - - - - × - - - - - × - - - - - × - - - - × - - - - × - - - - - × - - - - - × - - - -

Taking a step outside to take a breather and consider the situation, he shifted his white fedora onto his head and over his head. He could use some coffee at the moment.

"If he ain't gonna help me…" Jake thought to himself, as he looked away from the security camera. "I guess I'm just gonna have to help myself."

"Mr. Marshall?" One of the detectives called from the other side. He was obviously upset that he couldn't attend the ceremony today. "What are you doing in Goodman's desk?"

"Uh, um…I'm getting' somethin' for 'im. You know, because he asked…"

"Sure, okay!"

Jake sighed with relief. He couldn't risk getting caught. At least, not until he found out what happened that night. Hastily shoving his fellow worker's identification card into his back pocket, he swiftly walked back to his wild-west themed office. It brought him some sort of serenity, to see his office again. His cacti, Billy, Bogey, and Marylin…they were all he had left. Even Lana was out of his life, those two, long years…all because of that one man. He slid into his chair grinding his teeth, and sighed deeply. How did he convince himself to do something so crazy?

"I'd better ring up Angel…jus' in case somethin' goes wrong."

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Goodman just returned from purchasing his coffee. Looking toward the tower clock, he noticed it was about 5 PM. He pondered deeply before making his decision. Jake was a good man, and he had the right to re-investigate if his instinct had been telling him to. He couldn't take this uncertainty to the grave.

"Might as well transfer and pick up the evidence before the day's over. I'll analyze and present the evidence to Marshall first thing tomorrow morning since this is our last chance, after all," he mumbled to himself as he fidgeted in his pocket for his identification card. "Hm. Musta left it in the desk." He passed by the Blue Badger as a chill ran up his spine. _What an atrocity…though it feels unusually creepy to look at today…_

Jake just clicked off with Starr as soon as he saw Goodman come back from his break via camera. He briefly peered into the camera to see if he looked unusually wary, and relaxed when the detective merely sat at his desk, continued to sip his coffee and write notes. "Doesn't suspect a thing. Just gotta wait 'til he gets outta here," he groaned irritably, growing impatient. He'd just laid out Goodman's famous white pair of trench coat and fedora (sans that horrible blue and white polka-dot tie) he'd stolen from his closet. He gathered the disguise and left to the back of the Police Department to eat his steak lunch, and prepare himself.

"It's not here…I could have sworn…" he rummaged frustratedly through his drawers, eyes darting to and fro. He was annoyed at the fact when he finally decided to dedicate himself to helping out the friend he denied earlier, such a little obstruction just got in his way. Sitting up and scratching his head, he quickly nabbed a lost item report. He probably dropped it in the middle of deep thought. He scanned the floor of the department, but he was impatient with his irresponsibility, and just started filling out the report. When it came to ask for his ID number, he sighed in agitation.

"Yeah, go figure," he sighed as he put down the first number. It's not like he _remembered_ his ID number, so he just scratched off and shoved the paper into his desk. He decided to persuade Damon Gant, Chief of Police, to let him in this one time since that's where his lost item report was going anyway…and he could also speak with him about re-opening the case for Jake's sake. Kill two birds with one stone before dinner, it was a perfect plan! He smiled at his ingenious plan (despite the inconvenience of losing his ID) and rang up Gant.

Jake leaned against the marble wall. It was cold, but not nearly as cold as he'd felt for a long time. He was going to satisfy his itch by whatever means possible. Perhaps he was already on the road to insanity…identity theft was a serious crime. But he'd return the ID card as soon as he got what he needed, yeah? Besides, it was transferal day anyway. Goodman was going to move them regardless. Why wait so late into the day to do so, Jake didn't know…and then he realized.

"Oh, shit…" he thought to himself. "If Goodman leaves at six…I'd better get to movin' immediately. He's gonna notice his ID's gone sooner or later!" He slightly panicked, hoping that he hadn't filed a lost item report already.

"Hello, Chief Gant," Goodman began. The man on the other line had a boisterous voice.

"Hello, hello Goody!" Bruce cringed a little at the awkward nickname. "What brings you to call me at this time? Did you perform the transferal as of yet?"

"Well, that's the thing. I can't. I'd lost my ID, so I can't get into the evidence room. I was wondering, if maybe you could give me a sort of voucher for today since this needs to be done ASAP."

"I see…" the Chief's voice lowered considerably, almost having a disappointed tone. It picked up as quickly as it fell however. "Well, I'll be right down! We're just about done with preparation for the ceremony, and it's good to see that I'm still needed around here!" he laughed. Bruce took it as a sign of understanding and breathed a sigh of relief. Not wanting to ruin the Chief's festive mood, he decided not to bring up opening the case in the evidence room as of yet.

Standing in front of the entrance to the security guard's—Jake's—office, Bruce wondered where Jake could have possibly ran off to. Letting it roll off of his shoulders, he waited patiently for Gant to come down—after all, he was an entire fifteen floors above. He knew how slow that elevator could be.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Good Man!" Laughing at his groan-inducing pun, Bruce could only exchange an awkward smile. He never did know how to respond to Gant's outlandish personality.

"No problem, sir. It's highly appreciated that you came down here to meet me. There's a separate, but related matter I would like speak with you about, also…"

"Oh? Well, come in boy, speak to me," Gant chimed as he swiped his ID, not particularly caring that the guard wasn't present. He'd always give him chilly stares anyhow. No need to ruin his good mood.

Goodman followed Gant who seemed adamant about getting the evidence out of his locker. He hadn't seen the SL-9 evidence for years, and they were unpleasant memories to recollect.

"Chief Gant…I was wondering," he hesitated. He was tempted to just say "forget it" but he couldn't. The one second of panic could not have compared to Jake's two years of uneasiness. He swallowed, wondering how the Chief could possibly react. After all, he hated criminals, and he put a notorious one away…so why would he want to see more into it?

"Yes, my boy?"

"I was wondering if we should re-investigate the SL-9 incident." Not wanting to mention Jake's name, he continued. It was much easier to speak and act at the same time as he unlocked his evidence locker with his prints. "There were too many unanswered questions…too much confusion." Pulling out the tagged switchblade, and some pieces of the shattered ceramic jar, he cradled them in his arm.

"It's too shady, and truth to be told, it hasn't sat well with any of us these past two years…"

Gant swallowed. He couldn't allow this. What if the original detectives (save for Lana, as she knew what would happen to her if she tried anything of the sort…) secretly came together? He had to think fast. He hadn't realized his unnerving silence. Goodman knew he was prone to eerie pauses, but the tension in his face suggested something else. His eyes darted to the gleaming broken switchblade.

"Chief…? Your answer?"

In that instant, the eccentric Chief of Police swiped the blade out of Goodman's grip. Startled by the sudden movement, he dropped the pieces of the jar, and was too slow to defend his front. Damon Gant had just thrust the knife into his stomach. In sheer surprise and severe pain, Goodman couldn't say a word. He was hemorrhaging more than the wound seemed to allow.

"What…why…?" he strained, clutching his chest as he slid to the ground. He was fading out. He wouldn't make it. …Jake! Everything began shutting down. The knife was lodged in far too deeply to remove. If anything, it would only allow for more blood to spill if it were moved. Trying to look over the excruciating sting, he looked up to Gant furiously. "You…you had something…to do with Neil's murder, didn't you…" It immediately clicked. There had to be forged evidence! This is how he jumped to being Chief of Police! If only…

"You talk too much, my boy." Gant peered at him with merciless green eyes, red-handed. "SL-9's been dead for two years…and well, apparently, you'll be too!" He clapped, and stumbled away from the pooling blood…no! Too much evidence. He wasn't thinking. The camera. The blood on the floor. The switchblade knife. His hand smeared on the first locker around the corner as he leaned in to think in a panic. Everything needed to be cleaned. As a top investigator of crimes, he couldn't fall error to such petty things. Goodman was bleeding into his trench coat, and he left the knife in there as his body became more and more lifeless.

"They'll find out…" Bruce Goodman spoke, as his eyes narrowed at the composed Chief. "I'll…I'll warn you now…"

"Didn't you know?" Gant replied slyly, wiping up whatever he could. "I'm the Chief of Police. Nothing can harm me."


End file.
